


Thursday's Child

by Liliththestormgoddess



Series: Thursday's Child [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst, BAMF Clint, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Backstory, Barney Barton - Freeform, Child Neglect, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Gen, Recruitment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:38:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1746611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liliththestormgoddess/pseuds/Liliththestormgoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She reeled back from the screen as if it had physically burned her. She couldn’t believe the words that appeared on the screen: MISSION: TERMINATION OF BLACK WIDOW. STATUS: FAILURE.</p><p>A story of Clint, his recruitment into SHIELD, his relationship with Coulson, and his relationship and subsequent recruitment of Natasha Romanoff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: If I was making a Hawkeye movie, this is how it would go. Most of this is headcanon, as I don’t read the comic books. This follows Clint as a boy until the events of the movie. Will feature his employment with SHIELD and his relationship with Natasha. I also really wanted to explore Clint's relationship with his brother and just how things could have turned out so bad. 
> 
> As a note, there is a small section before each chapter, in italics. These are ‘excerpts’; pieces that occur before or after the chapter, and either have something to do with the chapter, or nothing at all. They’re mainly pieces that I wanted to turn into chapters, but just didn’t have enough material.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own the Avengers, or the nursery rhyme.

_Monday's child is fair of face,_   
_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_   
_Wednesday's child is full of woe,_   
_Thursday's child has far to go,_   
_Friday's child is loving and giving,_   
_Saturday's child works hard for a living,_   
_But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day_   
_Is bonny and blithe and good and gay._

  
_“Hawkeye!” Rogers shouted in surprise. “Drop him!”_

  
_Barton ignored the order, instead keeping the man pinned up against the wall. “You like beating on your son, huh?” He growled in his face._

  
_“Barton!”_

  
_“You think I don’t know what those marks are from? Do you think it makes you a bigger man? Huh?” He held the squirming man tighter. “Well?” For a few more seconds he held on, then let go, and the man dropped to the ground, gasping for air. Barton shot Rogers a furious look. “He’s all yours.”_

* * *

  
_Iowa_

  
“Let’s go, hurry!” Yelled Barney to his younger brother as they raced through the cornfield. He cast a quick glance back to make sure Clint was following and that their father wasn’t.

  
Clint puffed breathlessly but urged his legs to move faster. The terrible angry yells coming from the trailer they just left spurred him forwards. He could hear something smash and the brothers put on an extra burst of speed. Soon, they reached the outer limits of the forest.

  
Barney grabbed the lowest hanging branch without slowing down and used his momentum to swing upwards. The nimble six-year-old leaned down and grabbed Clint’s hand and hauled him up. Together they climbed high into the tree, where they were safe and could see everything, including the trailer.

  
Barney wrapped an arm around his sobbing four-year-old brother and pulled him close. “S’okay, Clint. I’ll watch out for you. We’ll make it out of this.” They were heavy words for such a young boy but they weren’t made lightly. Distantly, they heard the higher-pitched screams and more things break. Clint buried his head in his brother’s shoulder.

  
They waited and watched for their father to leave. They weren’t disappointed. They watched as the trailer door slammed open and he stumbled out, cursing loudly and profanely. He walked right into the door of his truck and jammed the keys several times in the door before he found the hole. Then he jumped in, spun the wheels and finally skidded away.

  
Silently and somberly, the brothers descended from the tree and made the trek back. The door was ajar. Barney steeled himself for what he was going to find.

  
Dishes were smashed all over the floor. Several chairs had been overturned and one was in pieces. The lamp lay next to the wall, shattered. The door to their parents’ room was shut, but Barney could hear his mother sobbing.

  
He righted two chairs and Clint sat in one of them. “Hungry?” Barney asked, and Clint nodded.

  
Barney opened up the fridge and stared at the emptiness. The pantry held only several empty booze bottles. In the bread box he found the end-piece of a loaf of bread and beside it, some butter. So he buttered the piece and gave it to his brother, and watched him eat it even as his own stomach grumbled fiercely.


	2. Chapter Two

_Clint found himself once again in Las Vegas. He never really made a conscious decision to go there, but somehow he always ended up on a plane to Nevada._

  
_Perhaps it was the lights; thousands and thousands of retina-searing colours, smells and sounds that attacked your senses as you walked down the streets. Maybe it was the flurry of movement; no one ever sat still and the streets were never empty, even in the odd hours of the morning. Or maybe it was his appreciation for any stage performer, and his innate desire to see every show playing in Vegas._

 

* * *

  
_Iowa_

  
Barney and Clint were sharing the leftover chips when the cruiser pulled up to their trailer. They shared a wide-eyed look. Barney said, “Don’t say anything.” Clint nodded furiously.

  
Two officers exited the car and knocked on the door, but the brothers ignored them. They knocked again, and the man called out, “Charles, Clinton, please open the door.”

  
Clint looked fearfully at his brother, but Barney was looking at the door.

  
The woman spoke up, softer than her counterpart. “Honey, please open up.”

  
Barney hesitated for a moment, but finally opened the door an inch. He said, “My parents are sleeping. Can you come back later?” It was the standard lie their father had drilled in.

  
The officers shared a glance before the woman looked away. The man said, a little forcefully, “We need to come in, son.”

  
Barney clenched his fists but stepped back, simultaneously stepping in front of Clint. The officers looked around their home and then took in the two malnourished boys.

  
The woman bit her lip, then knelt down so she was at their eye level. “Sweetie,” she called to Clint, offering him a smile. “It’s okay. No one’s in trouble here.”

  
She called him sweetie, like his mom did. Or used to. She had stopped calling him that a long time ago; she’d stopped talking to him a long time ago. Clint decided she had a funny looking mouth but that she was nice enough. He stepped around Barney but clung to his hand.

  
“Sweetie, we have some bad news,” the lady began. Her smile slipped away. “Your mom and dad were in a car accident.”

  
Barney gripped Clint’s hand tighter. It hurt.

  
“I’m sorry, honey. But they won’t be coming home. Ever.”

  
“We’re going to take you to the state orphanage, where you’ll be taken care of,” the man said.

  
Clint wrinkled his nose and looked at Barney. Barney looked scared, but Clint didn’t understand why. He tugged on his brother’s hand. “Barney, I’m hungry.”

  
“We’ll get you both burgers, alright?” The nice lady said.

  
Clint smiled. “Yeah. A burger.”

  
The officers found two duffel bags and helped the boys to pack their things. Clint kept asking why they were moving, and shouldn’t they wait for dad to get home? Wouldn’t he be angry? Barney just shook his head and told him to grab his things.

  
It only took them a few minutes to gather all of their things before they were ready to go. They stopped at Burger King and Clint wolfed down two burgers and fries. The police officers then took them to a building, leaving them with another older man. Clint was sad to see the lady go. He still didn’t understand why their father hadn’t come to pick them up yet, but Barney was with him, so he knew it was alright.

  
It sunk in, a week later that they were never going home. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

  
The boys’ home was nice, Clint supposed at first. He got food and a bed to himself, which was new to him. There were other boys his age, and he figured for the first time he’d have friends.

  
He was wrong.

  
He had a few friends, mostly the few boys his age. But the boys came and went as they were adopted, always leaving Clint behind. Sometimes the older ones picked on him. Barney always said he’d protect him. He really, really tried. While he could make his point with the other boys that Clint was off-limits unless they wanted their ass kicked, he couldn’t quite do the same for Old Man Dave.

  
Maybe the man just enjoyed beating on someone who couldn’t beat back. Maybe it was some sick fascination. It wasn’t just Clint – it was all of the younger boys. It soon became a race to see who could get away the fastest. Self-preservation won over friendships. But after the fifth time Clint had been locked outside to sleep in the doghouse in the cold, Barney’s eyes went dark.

  
He kneeled down in front of a tearful Clint, gripped his shoulders and said, “We’ll make it out of this. I promise.”

  
And Clint had known everything would be okay.

  
Three nights later, with their pockets full of silver and Old Man Dave’s wife’s jewels, they hopped a train. They didn’t much care where it was going; only that it was away from there.

  
Barney grunted as he slammed into the railing, flung by the force of the moving train. Next to him, Clint landed on all fours and rolled close to the edge. Barney grabbed his arm and hauled him upright before wrenching open the door.

  
The brothers stopped in their tracks.

  
Four men sat around a table, cards in their hands and scowls on their faces. The largest, meanest looking man stood up. “Well, lookie, we got stowaways!”

  
Two of the other men turned back to their game, uninterested. “Eh, throw ‘em back, Bernie,” one said with a wave of his hand.

  
Barney threw a hand out, shoving Clint behind him. He stood up tall as Bernie approached them. “No, wait, we just needed to get out of the city –“

  
Bernie laughed. “Like we ain’t heard that before, boy! Everybody thinks they can just hop on board and run away with the circus, but it jus’ don’ work that way!”

  
Barney looked frantic. “Okay, here.” He pulled the silver and jewelry from his pockets. “Let us stay on board. Let us join the circus.”

  
Snorts erupted from the table.

  
“No!” Barney shouted adamantly. “We can work. We can work hard. Me and my brother.”

  
“We don’t take kids,” Bernie sneered.

  
Barney jutted his chin out. “I’m eighteen, my brother is sixteen.”

  
“Bull shit,” Bernie argued, and grabbed Barney by the neck of his shirt.

  
“Hey!” Clint yelled, and latched onto the man’s arm. “Let him go!” Bernie lifted him off the ground like he was nothing, and Clint’s feet dangled in midair. He struggled wildly for a minute, before another voice spoke from the table.

  
“Bernie, man, put him down.” It was the fourth man, who had since remained silent. He leaned forward on the table and nodded to the coins that had fallen from Barney’s hands. “Just take ‘em and leave the kids be. I’ll take ‘em to Carson in the morning and he’ll decide. Cool?”

  
Bernie grunted and dropped Barney to the floor. Then he scooped up the gold and sat back down at the poker game. The Barton brothers sat, ignored in the corner through the night, before the train stopped again. The man who stood up for them took them to see the owner, Carson. Carson turned out to be a nice man who liked kids, and even though they were scrawny and underage, he gave them both chores and a place to sleep. Even though he only paid Barney, the brothers always had food in their bellies and no one laid a hand on them.

  
A circus, to any child, is a wondrous thing, and the brothers were ecstatic to be able to live in one. The bright lights, the sounds of laughter, the colours and the extravagant shows captured their hearts. They were enthralled with the fat lady, the man who played with fire, the archer and the man who juggled swords as effortlessly as he breathed. For the first time in a long time, they smiled and laughed.


	3. Chapter Three

_Clint held the hankie to his freely bleeding nose, watching his brother pace in front of him._

  
_He didn’t catch all of what Barney said, but from what he could hear, none of it was very nice._

  
_“S’okay, Bardy,” Clint attempted to say._

  
_Barney violently shook his head. “If they think they can just do this…” his words dissolved into more colourful language._

  
_Clint looked down at the hankie, trying to decide if the bleeding had stopped, when his brother knelt in front of him and grasped his shoulders. Clint looked back up into his brother’s serious and open face._

  
_“Clint,” he said. “We’re going to get through this. The two of us, we have to stick together. Okay?”_

  
_Clint could only nod._

* * *

  
_Connecticut_

  
Barney tossed the man his last bill as he walked away, and wasted no time in opening the carton and shaking out a cigarette. With one sharp flick of his lighter he was inhaling the rancid smoke and blowing it out his nose – just because he could. At just fourteen years old, Barney Barton had aged internally, becoming a hard, often cold, man.

  
He strolled back to the horse stables, casually tossing the carton from hand to hand. When he stepped through the doors he didn’t even wrinkle his nose; they’d been working and living with the circus for nearly a year as roustabouts. Their days were spent shovelling manure and putting up tents and taking down tents and running errands – anything that needed doing. But the Barton brothers were fine with that because they were together and they were free. And they were seeing the world. Or at least America.

  
Inside the stable, his brother Clint looked up from shovelling just in time to catch the pack of cigarettes thrown his way. He shook out a cigarette and tossed the rest back.

  
“We better get paid this week,” Barney muttered around the cigarette dangling from his lips. “We ain’t got nothing left.”

  
Clint blew a smoke ring, grinning at his brother’s furious look. He shrugged his shoulders. “C’mon, man. When have you ever cared about money? We don’t need money.”

  
Barney scowled. “You plannin’ on growin’ old here? Besides, old man Carson isn’t holding this shit-hole together. We’ve had three pay cuts in the last two months and four red-lighted.” He took another drag, pointing the butt at his brother for emphasis. “Those fucking performers and their fucking special treatment. We do all the work around here. It’s not our fault business is failing – it’s theirs.”

  
Footsteps sounded outside, and the drone of multiple voices passed the tent. Barney poked his head out. “Lunch flag is up. Let’s go.” The brothers ground out their cigarettes and trudged towards the meal tent. They handed their lunch tickets over and carried their trays to the back of the tent where the rest of the workers ate, separated from the performers.

  
Clint, at age twelve, was really too young to understand why Barney speared his food with so much force that he broke through the paper plate.

  
Chores finished late that night, as the horse act had been pushed back several performances, and Clint and Barney were responsible for dealing with the horses. Clint rushed to finish because the one act he wanted to see was coming up.

  
As fast as he could, he unbridled the horses and cleaned the saddles. Then he brushed down the horses and made sure they had enough water and food to eat. He scrambled through it all. It wouldn’t normally take him this long because Barney usually helped him, but Barney had disappeared again. Clint was pretty sure he was off with some of the older circus workers. Barney never bothered to tell Clint where he was going, and if Clint asked, Barney would just shrug and say he’d been “out”.

  
Clint wasn’t stupid; they’d both grown up in the same household. Their father always said he was “going out”, and he always came back piss-ass drunk and raving mad.

  
But Clint shrugged it off because Barney would never hurt him. Barney was his brother.

  
With all of the horses back in their stables, Clint dashed off towards the Big Top, praying that he hadn’t missed his favourite performance. He snuck in past the security and stayed in the shadowed corner near the back.

  
The heat was oppressive in the tent, but Clint ignored it and the crunch of popcorn beneath his shoes. He settled himself down on the floor and grinned wildly as the ringmaster announced the next act: Trickshot.

  
Their resident archer stepped onto the stage, dressed in a flashy gold and white outfit, amidst thundering applause. Clint clapped the hardest.

  
He watched in complete awe as Trickshot performed a dizzying number of stunts. He started with basic targets which increased in distance and angles, before he was pulling people from the audience to stand with apples on their heads. He had ten volunteers lined in a row, all with apples placed upon their heads. Trickshot studied them intensely for several minutes as the crowd held their breath, completely silent.

  
Clint swore that if you blinked, you’d miss it. In under five seconds, Trickshot had nocked and shot all ten apples off the volunteers’ heads. The crowd went wild, hooting and yelling and stomping their feet.

  
After his act, Clint slipped out with the crowd, a smile plastered on his face. It couldn’t be wiped off, even if Barney stumbled into their sleeping quarters late that night, smelling of beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks. I'm having some serious formatting issues. First it smooshes all of my paragraphs together, so then I have to manually add spaces - which seem larger than usual. Not quite sure how to fix this.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still having formatting issues, but here's another chapter to make up for last chapter's mess.  
> Also, heavy language here.

_Somehow, somewhere, Stark had found an old ad for the circus. It was yellowed and wrinkled with age, and the vivid purples and blues and yellows had faded, but there it was._

  
_A sketch of a boy in in a purple suit, with a blindfold covering his eyes, yielding a bow and several arrows at once, was splashed across the front. He was aiming at a girl with an apple on her head, who looked positively frightened to be standing there. The headline screamed: The Amazing Hawkeye, Master Archer._

  
_Clint touched it hesitantly, almost afraid it would burn him. The corner of his mouth tugged upwards. The circus had been several good years of his life. Some days, he really missed it._

* * *

  
_Texas_

  
Clint and Barney whistled a jaunty tune in sync as they swept the tent. The circus was pulling out the next day and their job was to clean up and prepare for the move.

  
Clint skipped back a few steps and tossed the broom to the ground. “Again!” He called to Barney, a huge grin on his face.

  
Barney rolled his eyes, but indulged his younger brother. He picked up a crumpled popcorn bag and threw it at Clint.

  
Clint bounced it off his knee a few times, then across his feet and legs before he toed it into the trashcan across the tent. Clint whooped and jumped around in a circle but stopped when a voice barked at them.

  
“Hey! Quit goofing around!” It was Buck Chrisholm, also known as Trickshot, the resident archer and sharpshooter. Clint felt his face grow red as he scrambled to retrieve his broom.

  
“You.” Clint stopped and turned around. The archer was looking directly at Clint. “Come here.” Clint cast a look at Barney but approached Trickshot. Trickshot was giving him a strange look and Clint started to fidget anxiously. Buck picked a palm-sized rock from the ground and handed it to Clint. “Get this rock into that trash bin,” he said, pointing to another can at the other side of the tent. This can was partially hidden from view, and had Clint not had quite extraordinary aim, he would have laughed and said it couldn’t be done.

  
Clint wasn’t sure what sort of test this was, but it was one he could do. Weighing the rock in his hand to get a feel for it, he shot Trickshot one more glance before throwing the rock, without much thought, into the trashcan. It made a small ‘clang’ sound as it hit the bottom.

  
He turned back to see that Trickshot was still staring at him. “Follow me,” was all he said before stepping out of the tent. Clint shared a bewildered look with Barney before following him out. He trudged after Buck, straight into Buck’s train car, where he pulled his bow from the wall and kept going behind the car.

  
“What’s your name, kid?” he asked.

  
“Clint Barton.”

  
“Okay, Clint, ever drawn a bow before?” he asked, offering the bow.

  
Clint stared at it with wide eyes. “N-no,” he said. Trickshot pushed it into his hands and Clint reluctantly held it, albeit with hesitant and light fingers.

  
“Try it,” he encouraged.

  
Clint shot him a horrified look, but Buck nodded. Clint gulped and turned the bow in his hands, trying to remember how he’d seen Buck do it so many times before. He’d managed to get his grip right and nocked the arrow, but as soon as he tried to pull the bowstring, his fingers slipped, surprised at the resistance. The arrow fell to the ground at his feet.

  
Trickshot chuckled as Clint cursed, his cheeks flaming. Buck took back the bow. “You’ll be able to do it with more practice.”

  
“What?” Clint finally asked.

  
“Your aim is perfect, kid. I know that with some work, I can make an apprentice out of you.”

  
Clint’s eyes widened. “Apprentice?”

  
Buck smiled. “Yeah.”

  
There wasn’t a night where Clint wasn’t practicing archery. He’d gotten his own bow and he treated it as if it were his most prized possession – which it was. He practiced for hours on end after his regular duties and chores had been completed. Sometimes he skipped dinner. Barney became irritated and always voiced his lack of faith in his brother. Clint never heard any of it. He worked on his arm strength in order to draw the string. He worked and worked until his fingers and wrists were bleeding. And then he practiced some more. He worked closely with Buck, first on simple shots, and then steadily harder. Trickshot claimed he was a natural. They worked on an act and pitched it to Carson. Carson was skeptical, but gave them a week to try it. They were still just called ‘Trickshot’, but the crowd loved it and they changed it to ‘Trickshot and the Archer’, and then as they grew increasingly daring and successful, Clint got a name: Hawkeye. They were then ‘Trickshot and Hawkeye: Master Marksmen’. The crowds ate it up. They were the main attraction in every state. Then Buck broke the news to Clint; he was retiring. He had been training Clint to replace him. When he left the circus, the act changed. ‘The Amazing Hawkeye’ took over.

  
Carson pulled Clint completely as a roustabout. He was now a performer. He gave Clint a paycheque. He got his own sleeping car. Barney disappeared sporadically. Clint didn’t notice.

  
One day, as he was taking a smoke break from practice, Clint frowned as Barney stormed towards him, clearly upset. “They cut five more today. Including the Swordsman.” He let out a string of curse words.

  
Clint shrugged. “But you weren’t cut, were you?” He got no answer. “Don’t sweat it, Barney. I’m getting paid well enough.”

  
Barney scowled. “Yeah, my brother the fucking circus monkey. I don’t need your money.”

  
Clint stomped out his cigarette. “The fuck, Barney? What’s your problem?”

  
Barney threw his arms out. “You. Me. This place. When are we leaving? This was never supposed to be permanent.”

  
“You were fine three months ago. And I’ve got a show now. We can’t just leave.”

  
Barney’s lips thinned as he regarded his brother. “I see. What’s it gonna be, brother? You pick that dirty monkey over me? Huh?”

  
“No! Of course not, Barney.”

  
“’Cause I’ve done all this for you. Everything was for you. I’ve always taken care of you.”

  
“I know, Barney, I know –“

  
“So tell me now if you wanna stay. ‘Cause I’m leaving. But if you don’t care about family anymore, stay.” He spun on his heel but Clint reached out and grasped his arm.

  
“No, Barney. No. I’ll go with you. Just – just let me do this week’s shows. I have a new act.”

  
Barney let out a breath, but his expression softened. “Yeah. Alright.”


	5. Chapter Five

_“I hated him for a very long time,” Clint spoke softly. Thor looked over, surprised. “My brother,” Clint clarified. “He left me to die, over money. Always said to me, ‘We’re going to get through this. I’ll take care of you.’ No matter where we were, I always believed him.”_

  
_He dropped his chin into his hands. Thor looked on, listening in sad silence._

  
_“I realize now, that he was just too young. Too damn young to do what he was doing. He tried his very best to raise me, but we were just kids. And he crumpled under the pressure.”_

* * *

  
_Virginia_

  
Clint’s smile remained on his face even after he’d left the stage to thundering applause. The audience had loved his new trick. It had taken him weeks to get it right.

  
He pulled the cowl from his head, ruffling his head of long, dark blonde hair. At sixteen, he was entering the age where it was cool and crucial to have long hair.

  
He passed by Mr. Carson, who clapped him on the back. “Great job, Barton. They loved it. You’re the reason they come here.” His face broke into a wide, genuine smile. “The Amazing Hawkeye.”

  
Clint grinned. “Thank you, sir.”

  
Carson nodded. “Now, run along, son, and get a good night’s rest. You deserve it.”

  
Clint left the tent as the beginning strains of the next act started up. He stepped out into the night and all the noises and colours of the circus hit him. He basked in the chaos. He loved this. Children on sugar highs ran by, trailed by weary parents, and lovers strolled around with their hands clasped. Clint shouldered his bow and headed back to his quarters on the train.

  
When he passed Carson’s car, he heard whispers and footsteps from within. He frowned; Carson was at the Big Top. No one else was ever in his car. He stepped closer, swallowing his fear. He had to see who it was and what they were doing. Carson had given him everything.

  
Quickly, before he could regret the decision, he pushed open the door and jumped inside. Immediately, he was pinned up against the wall with an arm pressed to his throat. He gasped and pushed at it, when a cry of “Clint!” sounded, and the arm dropped.

  
He tentatively touched his throat, already feeling the bruise forming. He looked up to meet the scowling face of Jacques Duquesne, the Swordsman, and the shocked face of his brother, Barney.

  
“What the hell is he doing here?” Jacques demanded, turning to Barney. Barney never took his eyes off Clint.

  
“What are you guys doing in Carson’s car?” Clint croaked. One look at Barney’s face and he knew it wasn’t anything good. His stomach turned to ice as he realized what they were doing. “You’re stealing the money. That’s where it’s going. Why we’re going under.”

  
Jacques pulled out one of his throwing knives and began flipping it in his hands, still eyeing Clint. “Carson is a dumbass. Thinks he can get away with firing his best attraction?” His smile was menacing. “And he replaces me with some brat who can shoot. No, _that_ ’s why he’s going under. We’re just taking our fair share. You shouldn’t have stuck your nose where it don’t belong.”

  
“Wait,” Barney interrupted, stepping between them. His face was pale and his Adams’ apple bobbed as he swallowed. “We can split with Clint, and he won’t say a word. You can trust him.” He turned pleadingly to his brother. “Right?”

  
Clint felt his world tilt. He was being asked to choose between his loyalty to his brother, who’d always been there for him, and his loyalty to the man he almost considered a father. He felt his soul rip in two.

  
For long moments, the Barton brothers gazed at each other in desperation, but Clint’s conscious was screaming at him. Stealing wasn’t right, and he could not forget about it.

  
“No,” he breathed. “I can’t, I’m sorry.” He made to leave but Jacques shoved him back.

  
“You ungrateful little shit,” he snarled. The knife hovered around Clint’s eye and he squirmed in Jacques’ hold. “After all that we’ve done for you, and you’re going to snitch?” The knife pressed into his neck. Clint felt a hot stream of liquid slide down his neck.

  
“Jacques,” Barney said, sounding panicked.

  
“No,” Jacques retorted. “This man isn’t worth for you to call your brother.” Then he retracted the knife and shoved it in Clint’s abdomen.

  
Clint gasped and bent forwards, hands automatically reaching for the metal in his body. His heart skipped several beats when he touched it and his nerves screamed in pain.

  
Darkness swam across his vision and he lost strength in his legs. His knees buckled and he fell back against the wall, sliding roughly to the floor.

  
He coughed harshly, but that only made the pain worse. He caught sight of his brother standing in front of him, watching.

  
“Bar-“ he tried, begging for help, because his brother could fix anything. His brother’s lips moved, but Clint couldn’t hear him over the rushing sound in his ears.

  
What hurt more than the knife Jacques had plunged in Clint’s stomach, was the knife Barney plunged in his heart as he turned and left him behind to die.

  
Mr. Carson found Clint not long after, bleeding to death on the floor of his car. He’d yelled for help and held Clint, speaking reassuringly to him until the ambulance arrived.

  
It took several weeks for Clint to recover, but Carson wasn’t too far. He’d gotten his daughter to keep the circus running when he wasn’t there, and he extended the show by two weeks, despite having lost his two best acts.

  
But when Clint was well enough, he told Carson that he was leaving. There was no way he could go back. A part of him broke to see this man, who had done so much for him, look so depressed. But Clint was done doing the right thing for the sake of others, unless it benefitted him. From then on, he was going to look out for number one and no one else.

  
So he left, with no clue as to what his next step would be. He was only a surly sixteen-year-old with no family and little money. He was cold and uninviting.

  
How he came to the logical conclusion that a hit man was the ideal career choice, he put that down to a night of too many drinks and the feeling of drowning in anger and needing an outlet.

  
He called himself Hawkeye. He liked the stage name, so he figured he’d keep it. He dropped the ‘Amazing’ part. That reminded him too much of his theatrical past. He didn’t care who he killed or why. Or at least that’s what he told himself for a very long time. Anger coloured his every action, his every thought. He was a changed man.

  
His eyes became hollow and dead. Why should he care about taking a life when Barney didn’t?


	6. Chapter Six

_The file arrived on Coulson’s desk, marked as low profile. Nothing urgent, but it meant someone was starting to appear on SHIELD’s radar. He opened it._

  
_Eighteen-year-old Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, was the go-to person if you wanted a hit done, and done with style. His arrows never left doubt that it was his hit._

  
_Psych had him pegged as a ‘violent psychopath.’_

* * *

  
_Berlin_

  
Clint hadn’t moved from his spot in over five hours, despite the gusting winds and intermittent rain. He’d been hired by one scumbag to take out another scumbag. He didn’t care so long as he still got paid.

  
He watched with a careful eyes as his target, Hans Stronberg, moved amongst his guests, his sleazy smile never wavering. He shook hands and laughed at everything anyone said. It probably wasn’t anything funny, Clint mused.

  
Clint tracked the mobster’s movements. The man was a brazen idiot. He’d been swindling funds from the mafia for years and now was using it to throw a great party. He had a great big bulls eye painted on his head.

  
The mark began to make his way to his office. Perfect. Clint had the best angle there and he could stick an arrow through his heart and beat it out of there before anyone noticed.

  
He notched an arrow and took aim, but before he could release, the office door opened again and a curvy red head slipped in, holding two flutes of champagne.

  
Clint scowled as the mark schmoozed with the woman, whispering something in her ear that made her giggle. She dipped her head and her cheeks flushed, embarrassed. The mark took a sip of the champagne before placing it down on his desk in favour of having both hands available.

  
Clint almost groaned. Seriously? Now? Here?

  
The mark grabbed the woman and kissed her roughly on the lips, letting his hands roam over her body.

  
Suddenly, the man stilled. He pulled back and looked at the woman. She stared impassively back. His face paled and twisted as if in pain. Then he stumbled back against the desk, breathing heavily. The woman in the black dress smiled down at him, her plump, blood-red lips moving as she spoke to the mark. Then she turned towards the window, stared straight at Clint, and blew him a kiss before sashaying from the room and the gurgling man.

  
“Shit!” Clint swore, because she had just killed _his_ mark, _his_ man, _his_ job. They were going to have his head.

  
He swung his bow towards the window and without a second thought, sent the arrow straight through Hans’ heart, sending him straight back to the desk to lie motionless. An arrow was so distinctively him that his success wouldn’t be questionable.

  
Then he swung the bow back over his shoulder and leapt from his perch to chase down the woman.

  
But when he reached the street, there was no sign of her.

  
Two weeks later, Clint sauntered into the local bar, looking to blow off some of his hit money and get completely wasted. He dressed in his customary black shirt, ratty jeans and worn out leather jacket, with his hair brushing against his collar and complete with a set of small, hoop earrings.

  
As soon as he entered, however, a flash of bright red hair caught his eye. The minx that took down his target was lounging on a barstool at the bar.

  
Smoothly, he slid into the seat next to her, and without casting a glance her way, ordered a beer. While he waited, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

  
The beautiful red head kept her eyes forward, but spoke in a husky voice, with a hint of a Russian accent, “Those things will kill you.”

  
He blew the smoke her way, grinning as she turned to face him with a look of annoyance on her pretty face. He chuckled. “I’ve got a lot more to be afraid of than cancer,” he responded.

  
“Mm,” she said, resting one elbow on the bar and dropping her chin on her fist.

  
He leaned towards her. “Yeah, like my employers.” He took a long sip of his beer, quirking an eyebrow meaningfully.

  
Her grin was both predatory and beautiful. She tossed her head, sending her long red locks back over her shoulder. “Nothing personal,” she purred. “He pissed off a lot of people.” Draining the last of her glass, she stood. “Well, this has been fun…” she trailed off.

  
“Hawkeye,” he offered.

  
Her eyes flashed with recognition. His pride bloomed. So she had heard of him. She bared her teeth at him in a sultry smile and leaned close to whisper in his ear. “Black Widow,” she purred, before walking out much the same as she’d done at the mark’s mansion.

  
As soon as she left, Barton allowed the small prickle of fear to envelop him. He drank the rest of his beer and ordered another.

  
He knew who the Black Widow was. Given what he’d heard, he knew it was extremely fortunate she’d left him alive, seeing as he’d stepped on her turf.

  
He had the fleeting thought that perhaps she liked him.


	7. Chapter Seven

  
_“No, let me guess,” Tony interrupted. “’Just like Budapest.’”_

  
_The spies exchanged glances, matching smiles on their faces._

  
_“Nah,” Barton said. “Budapest went a little differently.”_

* * *

  
_Budapest_

  
Clint was not impressed with this job, but he’d been offered a lot of money, nearly double his last job, and it wasn’t as if the mark was high profile and would be surrounded by security. Basically, this job would be a slam dunk.

  
What bothered him was that the job was up-close. The mark was secluded, never left his house, and always kept his windows shuttered. That meant that Clint had to enter the house and get his hands dirty. He always worked better from a distance.

  
Getting into the house was easy. The security system was pathetic and took him five seconds to disarm. Then, he silently crept through the halls, listening closely, bow at the ready. He checked every room but found no sign of the mark. He could hear nothing; maybe he’d gone to sleep. The last room he had to check was the master bedroom.

  
He threw open the door and raised his bow – and froze. The room was empty. For several seconds he remained there, thoughts and scenarios racing through his mind.

  
“You again,” a familiar voice came from the doorway.

  
Hawkeye spun around, leveling his bow at the newcomer, who had her own guns pointed straight between his eyes. Her green eyes glinted fiercely in the dim room and her curvy figure was clad in a black jumpsuit.

  
“Where’s Burgeon?” he demanded.

  
One of her eyes twitched, and he saw a brief flash of confusion. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  
Clint’s heart stopped for a moment as the two assassins eyed one another. “We’ve been set up,” he said.

  
The Black Widow had a second to digest the information before the window behind Clint shattered as it was pounded by gunfire. The pair dropped to the ground and rolled to rest against the wall, glass crunching beneath their feet.

  
“What the hell?” she hissed. More glass rained on their heads. She glared at him. “Friends of yours?”

  
He narrowed his eyes at her. “How about your friends?” he asked.

  
She growled and jumped up, firing off two quick shots through the window before sliding back down beside him. There was some yelling coming from the front of the house and the sound of the front door being smashed down.

  
“We need to head to the back,” he shouted. Without looking to see if she would follow, he headed out of the room, head ducked against the constant shower of bullets.

  
When he stepped out of the room, he turned and started down the hallway. Suddenly, two men appeared from around the corner, but an arrow lodged in one’s throat and before he was even finished firing, the other was thrown back with a bullet between the eyes. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw the Black Widow beside him, guns held out at the ready.

  
The pair made their way out the back, slowing only when they encountered more men. By the time they reached the backyard, all the men who’d come in after them were dead. Clint sighed and lowered his bow. “Well, now wasn’t that one hell of a party. Do –“ he was cut off as the screech of tires met their ears. The assassins shared a meaningful look.

  
Without a word, the Black Widow took off, scaling the fence with practiced ease. Clint slipped his bow over his shoulder and followed her down the street to a parked car. She had already opened the door and was fiddling with the steering column, hotwiring it. Clint hopped into the passenger seat without hesitation.

  
The engine roared to life and the Black Widow shot him an annoyed look.

  
The cars were getting closer, and Clint yelled, “Let’s go, woman!”

  
She ground her teeth, but stomped on the accelerator. “You are so lucky I’m feeling generous today,” she grumbled.

  
Clint grinned.

  
The back window shattered as the men in the car caught up, and both instinctively ducked. The Black Widow yanked on the wheel, and their tires screeched as they turned sharply onto another street. The car behind them followed.

  
Clint pulled out his backup gun and leaned out the window, firing off a few shots, but both cars swerved and his shots went wild. He looked back to his driver. Her eyes were set and every muscle in her body was tense.

  
Their pursuers fired off a few more shots, and Clint ducked back inside. “Can you keep her steady?” he asked the Widow. She nodded once. Clint took a deep breath and hung nearly half his torso outside the window, took careful aim, and fired twice. The front tires popped and the car spun out of control, slamming into the guardrail.

  
The Black Widow slammed on the brakes and expertly brought the car around, stopping it a few feet from the smashed car. They both got out and approached the smoking wreck.

  
Clint scowled as he nudged one of the dead men over. He recognized him as the lackey of the man who hired him for the hit. “That shit,” he swore. “I’ll put a fucking arrow through his eye for this. Now,” he said, turning to his impromptu accomplice. “I don’t know what your angle in this is, but –“ he stopped when he realized he was talking to thin air. He let out a breath. “Yeah, okay. You’re welcome.” Then he beat it out of there as the sound of sirens made their way closer.


	8. Chapter Eight

_“Y’know,” Barton tossed out casually, “this was kind of like Mumbai.”_

  
_“I think you mean Dubai,” Natasha answered._

  
_“No, no. But with some Venezuela. Yeah, and a little Mozambique.”_

  
_“Yeah, definitely Mozambique. But no Venezuela. Though there was a lot of Paris.”_

  
_“Oh…you’re right. That was totally Paris.”_

  
_Tony scoffed. “Okay, how about Trinidad, huh?” he asked sarcastically._

  
_Both spies whirled on him, matching serious expressions on their faces. “We don’t talk about Trinidad,” Natasha said coldly._

* * *

  
_Salisbury_

  
It was pure coincidence that they met again. But the amount of times they’d crossed paths, Clint was starting to believe it was a little more than coincidence. If he believed in fate and all that crap then maybe he’d look for a big picture or some such thing. But he didn’t believe in any of that.

  
She sat on the front patio of a quaint little restaurant, at a table all by herself. She wore a light blue sundress with a matching hat. The hat had a wide brim that shaded her eyes, but it never completely covered her hair. He was starting to think her hair was more of a statement than a personal choice. It was so brazen and memorable and easily changed, and yet she never dyed it.

  
He approached her from behind, but she stiffened ever so slightly that he knew she had seen him.

  
He slid into the empty seat across from her without asking permission, a wide, cheeky grin on his face. “I’m starting to think you’re stalking me,” he joked, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

  
She fixed him with a look of disdain from underneath her hat. Her green eyes flashed with annoyance. “Maybe _you’re_ stalking _me_.”

  
He chuckled and offered her a cigarette. She wrinkled her nose. He shrugged and stuffed them back in his pocket. “So, what are you doing here?”

  
She took a dainty sip from her teacup. “ _I_ am enjoying my lunch.”

  
He eyed her plate. “Mm, this does look good.” He then proceeded to wave over the waiter and order a dish, despite the Black Widow’s quiet protests.

  
When the waiter was gone, she fixed him with her trademark glare that had made even the strongest men tremble in fear. It appeared to have no effect on this American. “What _are_ you doing?” she hissed.

  
“ _I_ ,” he emphasized, “am waiting for my lunch.”

  
She huffed and turned from his stupid smile.

  
“So, what have you been up to lately?” he asked casually, as if they were friends just enjoying lunch. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned towards her.

  
“You shouldn’t be here.”

  
“Why? We’re just two people enjoying lunch.”

  
“I’m not so sure about the ‘enjoyment’ part anymore,” she grumbled, watching as the waiter brought his burger.

  
“Oh, please, you enjoy my company. I know you do.” When she looked skeptical, he pointed out, “There’s at least three instances where you could have killed me, but didn’t.” He cocked an eyebrow.

  
“You’re not worth it.”

  
He laughed heartily, which only served to heighten her annoyance. She resigned herself to not getting rid of him.

  
“Are you working today?” he asked around a mouthful of burger.

  
She froze with the teacup hallway to her lips.

  
He shrugged. “C’mon, it’s a simple question.”

  
“ _I_ am on vacation.”

  
Clint used the fries in his hand to point at her. “Ain’t that something? I am on vacation too.”

  
She abruptly put her teacup back on the saucer, perhaps with too much force. It definitely belayed her anger. She turned to fully face him. “Is there something you wanted, Hawkeye?”

  
“Well, yes, now that you mention it. I don’t even know your name.”

  
The Black Widow remained silent. Clint was unfazed. “Fine. I’ll go first. I’m Clint. Clint Barton. It’s nice to meet you…” he trailed off, his hand offered to her.

  
For several long moments she studied him, and she must have come to some sort of conclusion because she took his hand. “Natasha Romanova.”

  
“Natasha. I like it.” She huffed and picked her tea back up. “How about we do something tonight, Natasha?”

  
“Are you asking me on a date?”

  
He spread his hands out innocently.

  
“No,” she said sharply.

  
He pouted. “Seriously? Aw, man. Well,” he sighed dramatically, “at least we’ll always have Budapest.” He caught her confused look. His jaw dropped. “Oh my god. Are you serious? ‘We’ll always…’ You didn’t get that? Are you that uncultured?”

  
“Is this some sort of American joke?”

  
“I – oh man,” he groaned. “Tell you what. I’ll explain it over dinner. Eight o’clock at Sam’s.”

  
Her only response was: “We’ll see.”

  
Ten minutes later, they parted ways. At eight o’clock, Clint entered Sam’s and waited an hour for her. He couldn’t say he was surprised when she never showed.


	9. Chapter Nine

_They had ended up back at his place, after several bottles of beer and vodka shots. Clint hated the stuff, but he was trying to outdo Natasha. It turned out he couldn’t, and probably never would. But they were drunk enough, because they were both smoking, and Natasha was talking about herself. Neither of those ever happened._

  
_She was even talking about the Red Room._

  
_“I left when I was fourteen,” she said. “One of the first things they do is to destroy you. I thought they had succeeded. My first job was to take out a twelve-year-old girl, because her father had angered them.” She frowned and took another drag of her cigarette. “We were at a sleepover. She gave me a doll. It was a kindness I had never been shown.” Then her lips clamped together, and not another word was spoken._

  
_But Clint could read between the lines._

* * *

  
_Chicago_

  
The letter left in his mailbox had held nothing but a name and his fee up front. The hitman ‘Hawkeye’ had become known so well in the dark circles of the underworld that it wasn’t unusual for him to receive these anonymous hits.

  
The hit was fairly easy. Clint quickly moved from the location, his hood over his head and shading his eyes, taking the rooftops through the city. Rooftops were his preferred mode of travel, partly because he enjoyed the height.

  
He was jogging across one rooftop when something caught his eye. Eight dark figures slunk towards a dilapidated warehouse with only a single light on inside. What caught his eye were the way the figures held themselves; they were obviously packing heat.

  
For a moment, Clint paused. He could not understand why his feet stilled and his vision focused on that building. His head told him to keep going, but his heart screamed for him to check it out. For the first time in a long time, he followed his heart and not his head.

  
He found a rooftop entrance and hid amongst the shadows of the catwalk. He’d passed the eight previous men, plus two more on the perimeter. In the center of the room, below him, stood three men and one woman.

  
The three men stood opposite the woman. Two men flanked the third, which told Clint that they were hired muscle. The woman had flaming red hair and that told Clint all he needed to know. Slowly, silently, he pulled his out his bow and readied an arrow.

  
Down below, the Black Widow glanced down at the object in her hands. “And this contains it all?” She asked.

  
The man across from her chuckled. “For another $500 000 you can have the rest.”

  
The Black Widow straightened. “That was not the deal.”

  
He sneered. “I am changing the deal.” His hand went for his pocket, but before it got there, he was on the ground, an arrow through his heart. Natasha, quick as a striking snake, whipped out her guns and took down the two henchmen before they could wipe off their dumfounded looks.

  
In the next beat, he’d leaped from the catwalk and landed next to Natasha. She whirled on him, guns pointed at his face, but she didn’t fire. Her expression was incredulous. “What the hell!” she cried.

  
He pulled another arrow from his quiver and nocked it. “You owe me dinner,” he replied, spinning around to fire at the rest of the henchmen as they entered.

  
“What?” she yelled, her back now to him as she took on the rest of the men.

  
“You stood me up!”

  
She let loose a long string of Russian curses. Hawkeye grinned because she was calling him some truly creative and colourful things.

  
Suddenly, she stumbled forwards, and her face registered first shock and then pain. Clint spun around and the last two men were down.

  
He rushed towards her and was met with a muzzle in his face. “Don’t come near me,” she snarled, straightening up. Though her face was relaxed once again, her eyes were wild and her shirt was beginning to drip red.

  
“Jesus Christ, woman,” Clint growled, throwing his hands in the air. “I’m not going to hurt you! Shit, I came here and saved your ass!”

  
Her grip on the gun was steady. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  
“How the fuck should I know?” he asked exasperatedly. “Look, I saw eight men sneak up on you and if it weren’t for me, you’d be dead. Now get that damn gun out of my face and let me see your arm.”

  
Natasha slowly lowered her gun, but stepped away from him when he attempted to see her wound. He decided to let it pass for the moment.

  
“Let’s go,” he said instead. “In case there are more.” And without waiting to see if she would follow, he headed out the back and into the dark alley.

  
He did not hear her footsteps behind him, but he’d developed and honed a sixth sense to know when he was being followed. And it said a lot that he had his back to her and she followed him.

  
They slipped unseen past the emergency vehicles that showed up, and made their way through several streets and yards before Clint stopped in front of one building. He moved around to a side window, low to the ground, and jiggled the lock before it popped open.

  
Natasha lifted an eyebrow. “You’re place?” she asked sardonically.

  
He laughed darkly. “One day soon,” was all he said. Then he pushed the window open and slipped inside, Natasha nimbly following him in.

  
The smell hit him first as his shoes landed with a squeak on the cold, tiled floor. The cold air instantly chilled him as he approached the light switch. Flicking it on, he blinked a few times as the sterile room, lined with doors from floor to ceiling, came into view.

  
Natasha muttered another Russian curse. “How quaint; the morgue.” She curled her lip. “Come here often?”

  
He shrugged and opened a few drawers, pulling out various medical supplies. “Only when I’m in town and need a few things.” He gestured for her to come closer.

  
She took her time stepping towards him, but Hawkeye knew she could have killed him at any point. He met her eyes for a moment before he reached for her arm. Other than a momentary flinch, her face revealed nothing as he stitched up her arm.

  
“So,” Cling began as he cleaned the wound. “How long have you been in the business?”

  
“I was born into it,” she responded frankly.

  
He stilled for a moment and looked up at her. Her face was smooth. And though he knew she was an expert liar, he knew intrinsically in that moment that she was not lying to him.

  
To relieve some of the tension, Clint whistled. “That’s a long time. ‘Bout time you retired, huh?” he smiled crookedly, applying the last bandage before stepping back and regarding her over his crossed arms.

  
“You know as well as I do that you don’t just walk away from this life. No matter how much you want to.” The last part she spoke softer, just low enough that the Hawk could hear it. It spoke to something inside him, something he’d long since tried to bury, but something he never could: his conscience.

  
He dropped his arms back to his sides and nodded, gaze at the floor. “Yeah,” was all he said.

  
Then, before he could register her movement, the Black Widow was right in front of him, her hands on his chest, and her bright green eyes inches from his face. Her plump red lips parted slightly as she tilted her head forward, locking her lips onto his.

  
He was stunned, and it took several moments for his head to clear. When it did, he grasped her shoulders and pushed her back. _Damn_ , he thought.

  
She regarded him with a bewildered stare. “What are you doing?”

  
“What are _you_ doing?” he countered.

  
“Expressing my gratitude,” she whispered, sounding hurt. “Did I do something wrong?”

  
Hawkeye waited for the punch line, but her gaze never wavered. He sighed. “You want to express your gratitude? Buy me diner. You stood me up the last time.”

  
She stepped back, clearly shocked. But a few moments later, her mouth stretched into a smile, and Clint couldn’t help returning it.

  
It was the first real smile he’d seen on her.

  
They ended up at Mario’s. Clint insisted she try the pie. After that they ended up at his place. It was the one thing Clint dreaded and dreamed, but it happened. She took off the next morning, but he expected that. It wasn’t as if they were normal people with normal jobs. They were loners. But somehow they always met up at Mario’s. Or Café Bleu in Paris. Or Fabio’s in Vienna. Or Sam’s in Salisbury. Two weeks, or two months later, one or the other would be sitting there, a slice of pie before them. Clint, with a beer, and she, with Vodka.

  
They hardly spoke about themselves; they weren’t very open people. But the little things that Natasha would say or do provided enough. She didn’t trust men. Clint was the first man who hadn’t been kind to her simply so that he could take her to bed. She had been brainwashed to be a killer and seducer; it was all she knew. She left the only ‘family’ she had known and went out on her own as a contract killer. And she was only sixteen, a year younger than he.  
 


End file.
